


my head my heart

by puchuupoet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Buzzed Authoring, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Cynical Humor, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depression, Gen, If This Continues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Late at Night, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supportive Clint Barton, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19789588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puchuupoet/pseuds/puchuupoet
Summary: Bucky falls back on the only coping method that really works for him.Clint finds him afterwards.





	my head my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Once again using fanfic as coping tools. This doesn't contain any graphic depictions of self-harm, but most definitely references those acts having occurred, as well as the thoughts that can go alongside those actions. Please keep yourself safe and be aware of triggers. 
> 
> title from "civil war" by edison

Clint finds him in the dark, as only Clint can. 

The only reason Bucky’s surprised is that Barton had told him there was a rooftop barbeque happening and that Bucky was invited, even if Clint already knew what the answer was ahead of time. 

The movements are slow, and his eyes can track Clint in the almost-darkness. The curtains are ajar, the light of the city and the low burn of the moon seeping into the room, and it had reminded Bucky of European living, mottled green tents letting in just enough light to see that everyone was still breathing. Maybe that’s why he had left them alone, a reminder to breathe as he had made his way to the dresser. 

He’s still slumped against it, toes curled in the carpet, as tense as the rest of him. He readies himself for the onslaught of emotions, the way others reacted and his brain flickers _Steve_ but Steve doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that it’s still a thing, a rock in Bucky’s life. Steve would tell him to talk to someone, but Bucky’s tried that and it failed. This, this works. 

Clint’s sitting in the moonlight, watching him. His shoulder twitches, and Bucky hesitates before nodding his head, _cause why the fuck not_. He doesn’t start to regret this choice until Clint’s cross-legged next to him, taking him in. 

_May I?_ , Clint signs, and Bucky nods again. His fingers are stiff from stress, that tense grip he’d been chasing for hours now. 

“You look like shit,” he whispers, and Bucky barks out a laugh at the gut-punch of honesty. 

Clint keeps staring, observing in that annoying way that everyone in the Tower does. Bucky’s fingers twist in his tank top as he leans his head back against the dresser. He had stopped glancing at the clock what seemed like hours ago, and Clint’s gaze is making time stretch in uncomfortable ways.

“Just ask already.” Bucky’s body is thrumming with exhaustion, a confusing sensation that itches along his skin. The growing silence just makes it worse, and maybe he should have locked his door, should’ve begged off the evening with some physical sickness, not this “I’m feeling off but I’ll do my best to come.” Bucky should’ve known that Clint would pierce through his bullshit. But he had been exhausted, hyper-focused on calming down in the only way he could remember working.

There’s silence for a beat, then two, and Bucky closes his eyes. The silence keeps time with his heartbeat.

“D’you want help taking care of things?” 

Bucky shudders, nods, but keeps his eyes closed. He can hear Clint move, soft steps to the bathroom, the door closing shut before the light comes on. 

“Bottom drawer,” Bucky manages to get out. He stretches his leg out, the left one, because even though it makes him unbalanced, he doesn’t like using his left arm for this. 

When he flexes his foot, the skin on his leg stretches apart, painfully comfortable which makes his gut turn and his self-hatred hitch up a notch. But it works, like he had told Steve oh so many years ago, and he’s been able to live with the side effects so far. 

The room lights up when Clint comes back, the door left open and illuminating most of Bucky. He keeps his eyes closed but he knows what Clint sees, hears the slight hitch in the other man’s breath as he takes in what lies before him. 

“I’m..” Bucky’s apology fades away. He’s sorry but not, only sorry that Clint showed up and has to deal with him now, has to heft Bucky’s issues alongside his own. “I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper out.

“Mmmm,” Clint settles in next to him, shoulders bumping together. His hand drifts down to rest near Bucky’s, letting the other man interlace their fingers. It’s a softer comfort, awkward in its newness, but it’s nice. It makes Bucky nervous.

“‘m sorry too,” Clint continues. “If it’s okay ...help me help you?”

There’s a scoff of desperate laughter, one that Bucky can’t hold back, but his fingers tighten around Clint’s. “I mean, you’ve done dumber things before. Your call.” 

Clint shrugs. “You’ve definitely been on my list of dumb things to do, so yeah, I’m in.”

Bucky wants to keep laughing, to deflect everything with dark humor and that slick smile Steve had been jealous of, way back when. But all that comes out is a sob, and all he can do is squeeze Clint’s hand as hard as he can. Clint doesn’t wince, just rubs his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles.

“Let’s go be dumb together.”


End file.
